


127 - Claustrophobic Van

by storiesaboutvan



Category: Catfish and the Bottlemen (Band)
Genre: F/M, Mini Fic, Reader-Insert, Sick/Sad Van
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-15
Updated: 2019-01-15
Packaged: 2019-10-10 16:06:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17429111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesaboutvan/pseuds/storiesaboutvan
Summary: A baby fic about: Claustrophobia. And Van McCann.





	127 - Claustrophobic Van

Van leant back on the elevator wall, head pressed against it. He closed his eyes and waited to come to the twenty-sixth floor. In one hand he held a bottle of wine, and his other tapped nervously against his thigh. You watched the floor numbers cycle through and checked your reflection on the back wall mirror. Then, the elevator came to a sudden halt; a loud crashing noise sounded out simultaneously. “What the fuck!” Van yelled. You both steadied yourselves. Van pressed the button to open the door, but it didn’t work. He pressed all of them, and nothing happened. His thumb hovered over the emergency call button, and he looked over at you. You shrugged.

“Maybe give it a minute?”

“For what? Not an old building. Lift should just fuckin’ work,” he replied, already starting to panic.

“Press it then.”

He did, and a phone line rang. “Elevator stuck?” a voice coming from the little speaker box asked.

“Yeah, mate,” Van said.

“Hang tight. I’m on it,” and then the line went dead. Van turned back to you and you motioned for him to come closer. You took the wine from his hands and put it in the corner, along with your bag, and then pulled him into a hug. He burrowed his face into the space between your head and shoulder. He held on tight.

“Don’t like small spaces,” he said, his tone both anxious and childlike.

“I know,”

“Don’t fuckin’ sleep in the bunks for a reason,”

“Yeah. I know, Van,”

“Want to get out,”

“Yep. It’s alright. It will just be a minute,” you told him, fully believing that to be the case.

Ten minutes later and his pacing was getting more and more annoying. You were sitting on the floor in the corner watching Van get progressively more agitated and upset. The pacing though, it was killing you.

“Babe,” you said gently.

“No. I know. I can’t stop,” he replied straight away. He was shaking out his hands as he walked in circles. A caged lion. A very, very afraid caged lion.

“Okay, but what if you try laying down? Like, completely still. There’s enough room you could stretch out and you can close your eyes,” you tried. He looked down at you, pausing movement. He nodded and climbed to the floor. You directed him to lie his head in your lap, which he did, and closed his eyes. He almost took up the length of the floor but was just short enough to be able to unfold entirely. His right foot shook in the air as he tapped it against nothing. You ran your fingers through his hair and leant down to kiss his forehead. “You’re okay,” you told him in a whisper.

Claustrophobia was never what he called it. “Small spaces just do my head in,” was how he described it. But the elevated breathing, the twitchiness, and the fear that would cross his usually happy face… it was claustrophobia.

Another ten minutes passed, and Van stayed still. You traced patterns across his t-shirt, slipping your hands between the buttons where you could. When the elevator started to make whirling sounds, he sat up. You both waited, then startled at the voice from the speaker. “Here we go,” they said. The elevator jumped to life. Van stood, holding a hand out to help you up. You picked up your bag and wine, and let Van pull you under his arm. The twenty-sixth floor was waiting for you, and stepping out into the hallway was a relief.

“We’re takin’ the stairs down,” Van said, walking towards apartment seven.


End file.
